


Teach me to sin

by AlisonWrites



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Hesitation, M/M, Religious Conflict, Romance, Sexual Content, Sins, Suspense, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlisonWrites/pseuds/AlisonWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan has spent his life avoiding sins, whereas Ragnar prides himself in sinning to the fullest. Fortunately, opposites can learn to get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

No one knows why Ragnar chose to keep Athelstan; not even Ragnar himself. Their journey to the West had been nothing but wonders and they had brought home unimaginable riches, but when Ragnar was told to choose one item for himself, he had known instantly which one he wanted. He had wanted him from first sight. The boy. Among the treasures they had found, the boy had been – according to his men – the least of worth, yet Ragnar hadn’t felt as though he had a choice in the matter. He didn’t sail the man across an ocean only to have him taken away from him.

A lightning bolt had struck him at the first sight of Athelstan. Not literally, but it sure felt like it. Despite the clothing, the hair, the foreign words and hostile expression on his face, the boy had been so obviously special among all the monks they had met, that it hadn’t been a question at all. His eyes had held the same fire that all Norsemen carry in their hearts and he had known, known with certainty that Thor himself had marked the man; that Athelstan wasn’t a so called Christian, but a Viking too.  
Rollo had laughed at the prospect. Of course he had. He only sees what is clearly visible before him. He cannot see that family is a far broader concept than that of blood and that a woman can be a mother to someone who has never suckled at her breast. He cannot see how their people exist in other places than at home, or that home is not a definite location. Ragnar had stepped onto the shore of Northumbria and recognized the land for what it is, far from home, yet he’d found the familiar eyes of a kinsman there. A Northumbrian Viking, but nonetheless, a Viking.

It hadn’t felt right to claim the man as a slave but it had felt all the more wrong to hear Athelstan, a man so obviously made by the Gods for a life in the North, state that the apocalypse had arrived together with the Norsemen. He’d been oblivious to how misplaced he was, and Ragnar had felt the need to help him. Not that Athelstan appreciated his so called help, but anyway.

He doesn’t blame the man for his ingratitude. No sane man would be grateful for being enslaved and brought far from the lands where you’ve grown up. Ladgerda is sceptical, for she fears Björn will believe the Christian stories Athelstan so happily spreads, and she’s not keen on having her little boy filled with ludicrous. Rollo seems to think his brother has lost his wits. So has the other men, but compared to them, he finds it amusing. He’s dubbed Athelstan the ‘miracle boy’, the one who seduced the brute, the one who somehow won the mercy of Ragnar, who is otherwise known as merciless. He’s only joking but his words are accurate and Lagerda rarely laughs in response for she fears them to be true. The men stay away from Athelstan. To them, he’s neither a man nor a boy: he’s only a slave in their eyes. They can’t see a trace of hope in him and when Ragnar mentions the Norse passion in him, they merely scowl and say that no slave should be passionate.  
Athelstan isn’t much of a slave. He obeys and he performs the labour he’s asked to, but he’s constantly in a state of displeasure. He wears an expression of contempt for the brutal heathens who have stolen him away from his life, freedom and belief, even as the months pass and even once the ways of the Vikings have started to feel familiar to him.  
It shows, though, when he’s starting to feel at home. He doesn’t require instructions or orders anymore, but performs his tasks every day with less and less reluctance. A few of the men grow tired of disliking him, for everyone can tell how innocent he is and it’s no easy task to be angry with someone who looks so sweet. Björn grows fond of him and they start sharing stories with regular intervals, because despite his certainty in Christianity, Athelstan can’t help but to be curious of the Norse Gods. Who can blame him?  
Ladgerda softens when she realizes neither Gyda nor Björn is bothered by him, and she soon forgets how the man is not supposed to be a man but only a slave. He’s allowed by their dinner table, their beds, their things – he outgrows the title of slave and becomes, whether he wants to or not, a family member. It suits him. Ragnar was content with his family to begin with, but it does look better with Athelstan in it. He fills in the space that none of them realized was empty.

So when Ladgerda sleeps in the children’s bed to console Gyda, who has grown ill and needs to be crooned to sleep after repeatedly wakening from fever dreams, Ragnar and Athelstan find themselves alone in bed. They haven’t been alone like this before and Athelstan lies in the very corner of the bed at risk for falling out, onto the floor. It’s as though they are two magnets that repel each other.  
“Are you still mad with me?” Ragnar asks, although he knows the answer.  
“Why wouldn’t I be?” the priest replies. A few seconds pass before he adds, “Master.”  
“I don’t wish you any harm, Athelstan.”  
“You have already done me all the harm possible.”  
“You still have your health,” Ragnar factually interjects.  
“What is health without my faith?”  
“I haven’t taken your faith, only questioned it, as you have mine.”  
“You took my life.”  
“You still have your life.”  
The kidnapped man grows upset; the kidnapper smiles with amusement. Arguments like this one isn’t rare, however, it’s been a while since they were alone to speak so freely. It seems Athelstan wants to fully take advantage of the moment, for words spew from him in a way they wouldn’t from a regular slave. Not that he’s a slave, or regular.  
“I’m disoriented in every way possible. I’m no longer a human, I’m only a being. I haven’t got a friend anywhere, you killed my brothers, robbed me of my home, robbed me of my profession, robbed me of _me_. It’s as though my entire life isn’t real, as if I’m not real for there is nothing left of me..!”  
The last words sound like an exhale as if he’s been keeping them bottled up and has longed to let them out. Ragnar turns onto his side and watches the man whom he for some reason chose to spare; watches the man who still sends electricity through his nerves whenever they share eye contact. The feeling is what he expects being hit by lightning would feel like and the more he experiences it, the more convinced he grows, that Thor must favour this Christian priest for some unknown reason. It seems funny how the true Gods have chosen to treat Athelstan so well, when he effectively denies them with every chance, and it must be another sign of his importance. Athelstan is important. He’s known so all along.  
“There are times when I wonder if you are real too.”  
The thought slips out before Ragnar can stop it. The priest twitches with surprise. He turns onto his side too in order to face his master and stares at the brute that is called so many things and by so many names. None of the many descriptions he’s heard of seem to fit the man before him. When they first met, he’d been covered in blood that he had drawn from the brothers with an axe, but this man isn’t the same man. Ragnar’s eyes are smiling although his mouth is neutral. His entire existence is, if only temporarily, more at peace than any of the monks he’s met during his lifetime. The Ragnar whom robbed the church, the monstrous, wild, horrifying beast that set Northumbria in fear, is the opposite of this warm human. He’s so much all at once, he’s his own opposite, and if it is true, that he descends from one of the Gods, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise for anyone. Much of him is already alike a God.  
“What do you mean?”  
“I found you in a country no one thought existed. You wear a name no one has worn before. You believe in a God that I haven’t heard of. For all I know, you aren’t real at all.”  
They watch each other in silence. Athelstan replays his words over and over and is unexpectedly aware of how he could have been the one to have spoken them. The smiling eyes aren’t those of a madman longing to kill: they belong to a man who carries the same thoughts as he himself does. They are each other’s physical opposite, one of them modestly slim and the other wide and demanding of space, but something inside them is matched. Out of everyone he’s met in this foreign land, Ragnar is the last he expected to relate this well to.  
“I am real.”  
“I’m glad you are.”  
Ragnar smiles, and not the polite or the sarcastic smile that he happens to use around his kinsmen, but the intense smile he has reserved for Ladgerda and pretty women. The one that makes women blush. He’s flirting. Athelstan tries to turn away, not bothering to hide his sudden disgust despite his previous thoughts, but Ragnar won’t allow it. A hand takes a firm hold of his shoulder and twists his body back. The flirty smile has made Ragnar’s eyes narrow. His pupils are shrinking from excitement, leaving his light irises dominant and making his eyes look fluorescent in the poor lightning of the room. They’re impossible to look away from and Athelstan relaxes against his better judgement.  
“I’m guessing your faith condemn this?”  
“This?”  
The smile widens with implications and Athelstan hates how he blushes, as if he’s one of the maidens and not a man.  
“Which sin is it that you refer to? The sin of two men together? Adultery? Out of wedlock?”  
The smile falters a little.  
“How can something so natural be this regulated?” Ragnar asks. His eyes are no longer amused. “Say… Say your God created us. Say he created all our pleasures. Why would he do so, only to forbid you from experiencing them? If he’s your creator, then why doesn’t he love you?”  
“God loves us, even the sinners. He tests us to see who loves him back. Sins are animalistic pleasures and abstaining from them will bring a higher pleasure, one that is unrivalled by bodily desires.”  
“Do you desire me, Athelstan?”  
He should have known better than to use such a word. A second passes, then another. Their eye contact doesn’t waver although the priest takes on a slightly darker shade. Ragnar is alive with the thunder that the priest awakes in him and he has almost forgotten the question when an answer finally comes.  
“Yes.”  
Ragnar’s smile returns in full force. His eyes rekindle. An army of a hundred men couldn’t have floored Athelstan harder; he attempts to turn away a second time and the hand forces him to stay still; the hand lingers on his chest and senses the frantic beating of a conflicted heart inside it. Ragnar’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the tunic and though he’s only using one arm, his non-dominant arm, he pulls the priest towards him. The reluctance in Athelstan melts as the seductive eyes come closer. They’re intrusive and piercing and must see how tempted he is, so what is the use of pretending to be unaffected?  
“Say, can your God make an exception?”  
The smiling eyes are asking for a lot, for sins and barbaric acts and everything unholy. How he wishes he could say yes.  
“No.”  
Ragnar moves all the more closer until their bodies align. His wish to pull Ragnar closer and his wish to push him away cancel each other out, leaving Athelstan immobile as the wide male torso press to his own. He stops breathing when the hand lets go of the fabric and instead grip the back of his head. There is no distance between them and nowhere to look but into the striking blue eyes of the Viking in whose arms he’s lying.  
“Theoretically, would you go to this hell you speak of, if I were to hold you?”  
Athelstan pales visibly and the hand in his hair sinks lower, down along the neck that no man or woman has kissed. The air between them is static.  
“I don’t think so.”  
“And if I were to touch you?”  
The large hand lacks hesitation. It ventures inside the collar of the robe Athelstan is wearing and the large thumb shamelessly traces his collarbone, his skin, the curve of his shoulder. This isn’t a sin, he knows this isn’t a conventional sin, but it feels too good not to be a sin. His breath catches at the thought of how good a real sin would feel.  
“No.”  
Ragnar leans in closer and his large hand cups the shoulder in his palm, locking them together, nose to nose. His every breath reaches Athelstan’s lips.  
“What if I were to kiss you?”  
The Gods know he wants to. It’s a miracle how the kinsmen haven’t noticed his longings; he’s been yearning for the priest since he first arrived. He has positively been on his toes whenever the slave has been around. If he’d been just another woman, Ragnar would’ve given in to his longings and simply acted on impulse, the way he usually does. But nothing is usual with Athelstan. He’s never met a chaste Viking before.  
“You shouldn’t.”  
The rejection stings, perhaps because this is the first rejection that he has genuinely spent time fearing, but the breaths escaping from Athelstan’s now separated lips are short and upset. Rejection or not, the man pressed to him is as worked up as Ragnar is and rather than accepting his defeat, he grows determined. No man will reject him for the sake of an unknown, useless faith such as Christianity. He crossed an ocean to find this man; he won’t give him up easily.  
“But would it condemn you to hell? Where does the line go? Is kissing a sin, or only sex?”  
“The line… I think the line is sodomy.”  
“What does that mean?”  
The priest blushes. They’re too close to be having a regular conversation and Athelstan knows he’s treading upon the thinnest of ice by allowing this lack of personal space. His pulse is raging, for this is the closest he’s ever been to wanting to sin. He’s never wanted to do wrong before. If, hypothetically, the ice was to break right now, he would probably welcome it.  
“It’s how… Men have sex.”  
He can barely see Ragnar’s lips, they’re that close, but he can still sense his smile from how the skin around his fluorescent eyes crinkle up.  
“I thought you knew nothing of the matter, priest.”  
Another blush rages over Athelstan’s face and he promises himself to stop blushing, whereas Ragnar promises himself to make the priest blush more. The hand on his shoulder squeezes softly.  
“I have to know what sins are in order to avoid them.”  
“And kissing isn’t a sin?”  
It cannot be, he’s never read anything of the kind. But kissing this brute and prolonging this intimacy cannot be Christian so he ought to lie, but lying is a sin. He doesn’t want to lie; he wants to be kissed.  
“No, it isn’t.”  
It’s the closest to consent that he can give and the Viking barely keeps from drooling. Rather than kissing the lips so close to his own, Ragnar leans his head to the side and traces the tip of his nose along the priest’s neck, from his shoulder and up. The priest moves from the touch but not necessarily in discomfort. His nose reaches the dark curls that have grown uninhibitedly of late and inhales an aroma made up of foreign and homeland flavours. He barely keeps himself from licking along the man’s skin to see if he tastes as good too.  
He places their first kiss lightly on the smooth skin behind Athelstan’s ear. His palm is still resting on the man’s shoulder and the goose bumps that appear on his skin are unmistakeable. The kiss is gentle and uncharacteristic for the otherwise so crude Viking and yet he experiences an undeniable satisfaction from the way Athelstan inhales, as if he hasn’t breathed before. He could continue kissing him like this for the rest of the night.  
“Please, Ragnar, I beg you…” The priest takes a hold of Ragnar’s wrist and frees himself from the grip that holds him. The tone of his voice leaves no doubt as to what he begs for. “Stop.”  
But his body is ready to betray him. Ragnar can sense against the thickness of his thigh, through the layers of clothes they are both wearing, a throbbing erection that has long been forgotten. Athelstan finds himself unable to let the wrist go. Instead his hand slides down to pool in the Viking’s massive palm, and when the other hand comes to life and intertwines their fingers, he doesn’t object. It’s odd, how the seemingly cold man can act with such tenderness, and Athelstan removes his hand a few seconds too late when he remembers how deceitful the devil can be. Is this him? Can a human being have such shining eyes? What if Ragnar isn’t godly after all, but satanic? Is he the Devil?  
“Athelstan-“  
“Enough. You’ve stolen everything from me.”  
“Not everything.”  
“Almost everything. Let me keep my purity for it is all I have left.”  
To remain pure among Vikings – if it wasn’t for the grave expression on his face, Ragnar would have believed the man to be joking.  
He has one card left to play that would guarantee him what he wants, and that is to remind the priest of his status as a slave, but it wouldn’t be the same. He doesn’t want a reluctant Athelstan to force himself upon; he wants him willing.  
To flaunt his resignation, he rolls onto his back. He’s achingly hard himself and the blankets can’t keep his arousal down, but forms what can only be described as a tent. Athelstan does a double-take. To his defence, he’s discrete about it, but Ragnar still notices. He tries hard to suppress a grin, but his chuckles break through anyway. The priest reddens dramatically.  
“Have you considered listening to your body?”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“If you’re thirsty, you drink. If you’re sleepy, you sleep. Why not satisfy your hunger?”  
“I’m not hungry.”  
“I’d beg to differ.”  
The priest cannot blush more as his cheeks are already aflame, but his eyes grow hostile when he realizes what hunger the Viking refers to. He defiantly crosses his legs to hide his erection.  
“We have minds to distinguish ourselves from animals. If we follow basal, primitive instincts…” He hesitates for a mere second. “Like these, then we are nothing more than animals.”  
“Are we?”  
“Are we what?”  
“More than animals?”  
“Of course we are. We have the power to do wonders. We possess intelligence.”  
“Intelligence, but what do we use it for? Wonders? No, we use it to trick and ruse and deceive and backstab our own kind. If anything, we are less than animals. I say we should listen to our instincts more.”  
The priest stares at the man lying next to him in bed. He wants to tell him of the many holy things his eyes have seen and tell him how wondrous they are, but to a Viking, the holy writings must be nothing more than fairy tales. Not that a savage would see the wonder of anything wondrous – they are too blind from greed and sins.  
Still… He can’t deny his jealousy. Imagine being so guiltless. Imagine enjoying without feeling sinful. Imagine daring to take and to conquer and to claim. It is selfish to think such thoughts, but after years of selflessness, his desire to finally _have_ rather than to give has grown.  
He didn’t notice it in England, but he notices it here, he notices it now. Something has been missing in his life, although he genuinely believed it to be complete. If he was to return to England this very day, the monastery life wouldn’t feel whole. It wouldn’t be enough.  
The thought strikes him, that these men, these savages, are allowed by their Gods to sin, that their Gods do not question the faith of their humans, that their Gods resemble kind mothers who wish to be proud of their children, rather than strict fathers wishing to beat their disobedient offspring.  
Ragnar interrupts his train of thought.  
“Why do you think you’re here, Athelstan?”  
“He’s testing me. My life in England was simple. God wants to test me, to see if my faith will survive among savages.”  
“To us, you are the savage.”  
“How is that possible? My life has been pure and clean compared to yours.”  
“No. You have been given a life but you haven’t lived it. Compared to ours, your life has been eventless. If you have spent your life trying to please your God and he still needs to test your faith, I must say, he’s either paranoid or ungrateful.”  
Athelstan is silent, but his face carries a look of disbelief as the words sink in.  
“Let me tell you why you are here, Athelstan. This isn’t the work of a Christian God, this is the work of my Gods. You haven’t been led astray, you have been shown the right path. You are here in my bed because it is where you should be.”  
The argument has Ragnar fired up. His eyes are positively burning and Athelstan cannot recall a moment in his life during which he’s been more aroused.  
What the man says is both correct and incorrect; it is true and untrue; right and wrong, and the confusion of his thoughts leaves him incapable of making a sensible judgement.  
All he has left is what he physically feels and there is no question as to what his body wants.  
He only has to lean forward for Ragnar to realize his change of mind. The Viking tumbles to him ungracefully, rolls them around, pins the smaller man to the bed as if he’s trying to wrestle an opponent into submission, or trying to keep a Christian priest from escaping his bed. His hands land on either side of Athelstan’s face and they share a look in silence, trying to decrypt each other’s thoughts, before the priest lifts himself up on his elbows and kisses the Viking. Out of his own free will.

It is a new experience for them both.  
Athelstan, who never expected to partake in a kiss, locks his lips to the Viking’s with what can only be described as hunger. The sensation of wet, heated lips forced to his own is more intoxicating than the worst of drinks.  
Ragnar has kissed many, but no kiss has consumed him like this one. If the priest was to repent and flee the room at the very instant, the Viking would hold no dissatisfaction in his body. How could he? Sure, he would have blue balls and sexual frustration like a teenager, but dissatisfaction?  
No. He's longed for the priest to look at him with lust in his eyes. The door has finally opened, and although it is only just ajar, it’s finally proven itself able to open despite the Christian lock.  
He moans what must be a beastly sound down Athelstan’s throat and buries his fingers in the clothes he so longs to rip from the priest’s body. He looks nothing like a priest. He’s the most arousing of humans and yet he has the chaste persona and insecurity of someone asexual; it makes little sense.  
Athelstan’s tongue is eager and curious and disturbs Ragnar’s thoughts.  
Who cares for sense? This is all senseless and it is glorious and effortlessly great. He pulls the hem of Athelstan’s tunic up, easing it upwards to expose his flesh, and doesn’t bother with hiding his liking. The smirk on his face is both smug and appreciative.  
“Priest, how have I been able to sleep with you in my bed? I dare say we won’t sleep again.”  
Athelstan reddens but his eyes remain fixed. He has no need, nor wish, to turn them away. Whether the result of the inebriating moment or the logic of this fierce warrior, it fades from his mind how physical love can be as horrible as he has always believed it to be. Not to mention how he used to believe Ragnar to be nothing but a brute. A brute! Can a brute reason? Most certainly not - yet Ragnar reasons flawlessly. These Norse giants whom were described as pagans are, truth be told, as intelligent as they are violent. What is still upset within him is comforted by the fact that intelligent men like these wouldn’t sin unless they genuinely believe sins to be acceptable. Ragnar wouldn’t sin if he thought it dangerous. Ragnar wouldn’t intentionally bring condemnation and horrors to either of them, for he is not the Devil; how could he even consider it to be the case?  
This man doesn't believe in his Gods; he knows them.  
And if he happens to be wrong, they'll go to Hell together.  
“Teach me to sin, Ragnar.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s marvellous. It’s far better than what sins are said to be like. There isn’t even a catch. The guilt, which he expected, is nowhere to be seen, for Ragnar – all of him, all of the exotic muscles, the swollen gender, the thirsty lips, the warm smell of sweat – has sent Athelstan’s thoughts into a state of awe. There is nothing but a blissful chaos in his head and limbs.

Yes, awe is the correct word – Athelstan is awed in the arms of the Viking. Compared to how Ragnar takes his wife, he’s surprisingly gentle with the priest. Athelstan clings to his shoulders and the broad muscles forged by battle, and they rock together in an achingly slow pace. Ragnar’s moans are lower, saved for only Athelstan’s ears, carrying the sweetest of affection for his newfound lover. Each murmur makes his stomach growl for more; he’s so starved for the Viking that his physical and sentimental hunger has melted together. This is the closest to elation he has ever come. Elation, and revelation, but the God who is overwhelming him isn’t the God whom he has believed in for so long. This is someone more thunderous. It cannot be a coincidence that Ragnar sends lightning bolts with his touch.

They cling to each other and the pace picks up. Ragnar’s braid, which has rested between his shoulder blades, slides down between them and bobs against Athelstan’s face with every thrust, until they are both chuckling. The priest stretches out a hand to grab it, but instead of flinging the braid away, he tentatively pulls at it. Ragnar falls silent; his moan is cut off; the smile falters. His eyes look mad with desire and unable to help himself, he takes it all out on the priest’s inexperienced lips, kissing them with force until they are red and raw. Athelstan wraps the braid around his fist to keep the kisses coming and Ragnar doesn’t protest, although it is unnecessary. Nothing could tear him away from this man; no man or God.

Climax hits them hard. Athelstan tenses, writhes, tightens as his body lives out its very first orgasm. His fingers dig into Ragnar’s biceps to hold on for his life and he holds the amused gaze of the blue eyes while everything else pales. He recognizes something new in them, awe identical to the one he himself is feeling, and he knows none of Ragnar’s many ex-lovers has seen the same sight.  
As Ragnar comes too, harder than he can remember having done before, they muffle their moans in each other’s mouths. Audio waves find their way down Athelstan’s chest and shake him more than all psalms have managed to throughout the years. This is how angels sound – not weak, not petite, not light and frail like helpless children, but powerful and stronger than anything human. The image of Thor reappears in his thoughts and Athelstan knows that he is incorrectly giving the God the appearance of Ragnar, but who can blame him? Who can deny the divinity of this man and how can he himself claim that there is no Thor when the man is right here with him?

Their bodies are spent, but neither is tired. Their slowing breaths are loud, unashamed, fearless, and Athelstan wishes he felt the same way. His heart is pulling eagerly in two directions, threatening to break unless he makes a definite choice, but how can he? Years of his life has been devoted to God, the God, and if he were to automatically pray right now, his words would be directed to Him. How can he let go of his father? Is such a thing possible? Can he let go of everything that has so far been his life and hope that the Norse Gods are real and willing to forgive his ignorance and accept his newfound faith? Will they understand that his faith has been there all along, only misguided?  
And what if they’re not real? Will he suffer for an eternity in Hell for this evil mistake, for this betrayal of his father? Will his soul pay for having considered the Norse Gods to be real? Why would he even consider such a thing, when he knows God to be the only real god? Was the sin itself not a large enough mistake? Oh, how his father must be grieving, for the day has come when not even one of his priests can be trusted. The sticky remains of their love cling to his body as if to brand him. _How could he?_

It’s too much to have Ragnar on top of him; he’s too close to his sin, he has to put distance between them or he’ll lose it. Athelstan rolls out from underneath the Viking and next to bounces out of the bed. He searches for his clothes, for anything to shield his sinful body with, when Ragnar grips his wrist. The man’s hand is so large it easily encircles the priest’s arm. The same hand has felt every part of his body. Athelstan blushes and lowers his head.  
“Look at me,” the Viking breathes.  
Ragnar has to force himself not to grip the wrist too hard, for a fear swells inside his chest, that the priest might be changing his mind. It is a strange feeling to watch someone jump out of bed after sharing such a moment; it is even stranger for Ragnar, whose ex-lovers haven’t been keen on leaving the bed at all. Intuition tells him that if he allows the priest to leave now, then he won’t come back. He resists the urge to forcibly pull Athelstan back into bed, as doing so would only reinforce the idea of him as brutish, but the Gods know he wants to. He cannot let him leave.

But the man wants to, anyone would be able to see it; Athelstan wears his emotions so obviously, they’re impossible to misinterpret. His grip tightens as the priest lifts his head and focus on him. The tormented look in his eyes is stomach churning. What had he expected – that the priest, who has given his life to his faith, would rejoice in having it wrecked? Who knows what suffering it must be like to have your God denied, ridiculed, questioned, torn from you? No wonder why he wants to leave. Being here, being forced to so called “sin”, must be worse for the priest than to simply die, despite the pleasure. He obviously doesn’t want to change faith; he was content before, he was balanced and satisfied, and now he’s being forced not only to go against his belief, but to also give it up. Ragnar swallows, still tasting Athelstan’s saliva on his tongue. He isn’t saving the man, he is torturing him. Poor bastard must be growing mad.  
So although the proposition is complicated, dangerous and costly, he presents it without a hesitation.  
“If you want to, I’ll take you back.”

The surprise on his face isn’t subtle. Ragnar has already been to England a second time since Lindisfarne but Athelstan wasn’t allowed to come along, he wasn’t even allowed near the boats. Since, the idea of returning home has turned into an impossible dream, something surreal that he shouldn’t hope for. The everyday life amongst the Vikings has been filled with thoughts of comparison, often to the advantage of England and what used to be, and it shocks him to realize he’s not sure anymore.  
Is England still home?  
Does he want to leave Kattegat?  
Does he want to leave Ragnar?  
And what changed Ragnar’s mind?  
Did he perform badly, is that it?  
Is it too late to repent?  
Why doesn’t he want to repent?  
Ragnar rises from the bed without letting the wrist go. His body is wild, undressed and still gleaming with their mutual sweat that is yet to dry. He’s the embodiment of sin walking on two sturdy legs and Athelstan recalls the feeling of holding on to them, of gripping those thick thighs and feeling them work underneath his touch, of the power they hold. The man looks godly and Athelstan’s thoughts clear, leaving one question to alone torment his head.  
Is he supposed to choose now?  
“What do you want, Athelstan?”  
“I don’t know,” he whispers, as if whispering will keep God from hearing. “I’ve never had a choice before.”  
“Which says a lot about your life in England.”

It’s too much; too many newfound flaws in England, in God, in what has been his truth, his meaning of life. It hurts like stab wounds; his belief pours from him like blood; there won’t be anything left of him without God. He stumbles backwards, inadvertently pulling Ragnar with him, and flings the door open without a care in the world for the sound it must be causing. The wind explodes into the room. They haven’t noticed the weather building up, but there is a complete storm raging outside and Athelstan drinks in deep breaths of the foreign air to keep his head from blacking out. Ragnar places a hand on his shoulder to assist his balance and the priest shudders, for they are still undressed and the wind rips at them with fury. Everything here is furious. Everything is maddening and crude and violent. But it makes more sense than the artificial life he’s known so far.  
A thunderbolt cracks open the sky and makes his ears and heart burn. It’s another sign of the Norse gods, another of the hundred signs he’s seen over the past few months, in comparison to the unanswered prayers and years of silence from his treasured father. Another lightning strikes and Athelstan wonders if it hit him, for it feels like it, as if he’s been split in two like a tree and caught fire and started to ashen. As if his old self is dying.

Ragnar comes up behind him and wraps an arm around his chest, the other around his stomach. They watch the scenery light up over and over and Athelstan allows himself relax into the embrace. It doesn’t matter where he is, as long as these arms will be present to hold him. And if his own father disapproves of his happiness, then maybe he isn’t such a grand figure after all.

“I’ll stay.”

The priest spins around inside Ragnar’s embrace and faces him with a childlike excitement that barely covers up his indecisive feelings. A thunder strikes in the distance and lights up behind Athelstan, causing something of a halo to surround him for a mere second, and Ragnar pulls him closer. He looks like one of the pictures they’d found in the books at Lindisfarne – he looks so called holy. No God will be able to send this man to Hel _or_ Hell, no matter what he does. And if they do, he’s sure to accompany him.

“Good.”


End file.
